There was only one thing worse than waking up at five o'clock every Monday morning. It was waking up knowing that the rest of my week was about to be spent working at Lim Industries.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
The sound of my alarm jerked me out of my thoughts, and I rolled across my bed, yanking my clock from the wall. Sighing, I tossed the covers off my body and slipped into the bathroom, taking a quick, hot shower.
The second I stepped out, I covered my face with a light layer of make-up and put on one of my favorite navy-blue dresses with complementing nude heels. I debated whether I should wear something more festive to celebrate today's occasion, but this shit was not worth celebrating. Ever.
I picked up my phone and noticed a slew of new messages from my closest coworkers.
📲Congratulations, Aiah!
📲Congrats on making it two years with Thee Mikha Lim, Aiah!
📲Go, Aiah! Two years!
📲How the fuck did you last this long?
📲Are we celebrating this or nah?
Another year at my job should've warranted a night of champagne, a celebratory evening with friends, or even legitimate happiness. But working for Mikha J. Lim—of Wall Street—just meant another "x" stamped on my "days until I get to quit" calendar.
One of the most infuriating women I'd ever worked for, Ms. Lim was an alluring enigma who ate deals for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She was the type of woman who owned a different designer suit and thousand-dollar watch for every day of the year. She was also, unfortunately, the type of woman who still managed to make me wet, despite her weekly ass-holery. Especially when I was seconds away from wanting to slap her.
Over the past two years, I'd spent more time with her than I'd spent with anyone else in my life. She was the first person I saw in the mornings, the last person I spoke to at night, and since we were both workaholics, she was the one person I saw every weekend.
I stood by her side as she ruthlessly ran her billion-dollar corporation, as she channeled her life lessons from one too many viewings of The Godfather. I sat in on meetings with her closest cabinet of executives, taking notes on their body language and watching anyone who was suspected of being disloyal. And I accompanied her on all of her business trips—foreign and domestic, dutifully keeping her abreast of the inner workings of her corporation.
Our two-year business relationship now mirrored a modern marriage, without the sex. The only benefits I gained from working under her were material: unlimited town car access, a corner office that overlooked Manhattan, access to her credit account whenever I wanted to go shopping, and a salary that was more than five times what most CEOs paid their executive assistants. Then again, it was a salary I was never truly able to enjoy because I was always working.
My life was her life.
Scrolling down my list of contacts, I sent my town car driver a text.
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